


Unearthed Bones

by kingozma



Category: Shovel Knight
Genre: Chill Out And Ask Him Out, Dubiously One-Sided Attraction, Hating Yourself So Much, He Probably Won't Freak Out Like You're Imagining, It's Gonna Be Okay My Man, It's Not That Deep Specter Knight, M/M, Makes You A Potential Predator, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Specter Knight/Plague Knight, Self-Loathing, That You Think You Specifically Being Attracted To Someone, Waxing Poetic About Boners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 02:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingozma/pseuds/kingozma
Summary: ugly, ugly, ugly.





	Unearthed Bones

Before I lift the curtains on this desolate and worm-eaten stage, I will say this much.

Excavation is a dirty process.

No. We can start even smaller. We can take a few steps back from the turgid and scorching bowels of the dying Earth. Not only far too dramatic, but far too dangerous. We could get burned if we get too close.

Thus, let’s turn this into a discussion anyone could understand. Let’s talk about housekeeping.

Spring cleaning as a concept is associated not with the feeling of dust in your lungs or that ever-present sensation of spiders (is it deadly? or will it only hurt a whole lot?) on your arm.

It evokes cleanliness, airing out rooms you left to rot in the dusty, dirty dark. A new start. Purging. Rebirth.

That is to say, yes, while it comes with a laundry list of troubles, it is redeemed for the positives that result from it.

It is somewhat different for me and mine.

To put things in simple terms, I would like you to imagine with me the typical attic. Only the light of the sun graces this dark, colorless room, too blinding, too glorious to look at directly. A thin film of dust and… Something else that is decidedly not dust, but you have not decided precisely what it is, covers your valuables, you have no interest in touching them without some sort of protection.

I would like you to imagine me as a poor man, and place rotting, dying wood under my feet that well could snap and drop me at any given moment. The same sloppily-applied wallpaper that has been here ever since my mother was born is still here, and where it is peeling off, I believe I can see mold. I already need a worn-down, thin-threaded cloth to my mouth, but you and I both know I am going to fall ill anyway just by breathing in its presence.

I would like you to imagine me as a lonely man, and place nary but a little crow under those groaning floorboards. Hopping madly across the ground floor below, unpredictably. Blissfully ignorant of the fact that I stand towering above him, and I am heavier than steel. Heavier than bone.

Nay. Less lonely than I at first imagined, someone is rearranging my belongings. Someone has misplaced my beloved locket, my precious letters from my sister and cousin delivered from above the dark, black soil. Where is it all? I pace the floor, the entire attic moaning in protest.

Should the will of this wood bend to the will of time and the horrible weight of a living body, my little friend is crushed. He is helpless to the strength of gravity, and no amount of hopping away will save his broken heart - and spine.

I would like you to imagine me as a kind man, if restrained.

Why does he not fly away in the first place? Who has clipped his wings? Imagine him then as a fool to make his nest anywhere near mine.

…

I would like you to imagine me as a paranoid man, a forgetful man, and place perfectly functional floorboards under my feet that were hammered in to replace the old ones last winter. Who is here to remind me time and time again that my little crow is in no danger of being crushed to death by any potential misstep of mine?

I think, in those rare moments of clarity in between the hot flashes, therefore I am.

Yet here I stand on the sturdiest-looking board, holding onto one of the rafters above my head in case of disaster. Imagine me then as a careful man, a selfless man, a man stiller than any night, a man gripping the leash of a nonexistent beast.

It eats little songbirds like you.

Still as the dead, I fill my lungs with mold.


End file.
